


First Christmas Out

by jpgr1963



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/jpgr1963
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Paul's first Christmas together in Scotland. And an unexpected guest makes a surprise visit. </p><p>An extra chapter in <b>The Contract</b> verse. Originally posted in McLennonLand in 2012.</p><p>Disclaimer:  This is pure fiction. I only own the words and the twisted plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Christmas Out

**Scotland, 24 December 1980**

 

Casually picking out the familiar notes on the worn piano keys, the wet tip of Paul’s pink tongue peeked out between his soft lips while he hummed along with the haunting melody. Older and more frail now, Martha lay curled up in furry ball, fast asleep, snuggling her snout against his fuzzy wool socks. It was late on a winter’s evening, the rich holiday pudding was chilling in the fridge and a sprinkling of snow was falling outside.  

Off in one of the spare back bedrooms, John was reading a bedtime story to his young son with all sorts of sound effects and silly voices; when he heard them both giggling hysterically from down the hallway, Paul mused on how wonderful it was to hear John’s laugh again… that infectious, irresistible Lennon laugh.

Christ, things were better than Paul had anticipated they’d ever be. Course, they were still hiding out under the press radar in Scotland, but they were happy, adjusting quickly to their lives as full-time partners and stepdads. Shit, since Sean had come back up from his holiday at Friar Park, he’d started calling him ‘Papa’ though Lennon insisted it sounded much more like ‘Poo-Poo’.

Fucker.

A little over a week earlier, George had driven John’s five-year-old back up from playtimes with young Dhani; all three Harrisons stayed for a leisurely lunch before heading back down to their secluded estate.  Despite his initial reservations, the impromptu gathering with George and Olivia at the Scottish cottage had turned out to be much more comfortable than Paul had expected as well. He and John were openly together as lovers, and it was good. It was still fucking bizarre to be out as a couple in front of a mate’s wife, but it was surprisingly good. Light as a feather in his pucker-pinched loafers, Paul skipped about the cottage for a couple of days after they’d received Olivia’s heartfelt approval.  

He could do this.

And tonight, on Christmas Eve, the modest Highlands country house they currently shared was filled with the lingering smells of candles, a smoldering wood fire and freshly baked bread. Paul inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, drowning momentarily in bittersweet memories as his fingers continued to play the old Tudor tune. Going back to Paul’s earliest childhood recollections,  _Greensleeves_  had always been a favorite for the McCartney clan during the holidays. Aunts and uncles and a lively gaggle of McCousins would gather around the piano at Auntie Gin’s to hear Jim play the sad song. Paul remembered one year—he must have been very small—sitting cross-legged on the floor under the keyboard, wearing his beloved bright red Christmas train jumper, mesmerized by his father’s feet dancing lightly over the piano pedals.  

Shit, what the fuck would his dad have thought of him now, abandoning Linda and his carefully crafted lie as the perfect family man for a new queer life with his old shithead of a boyfriend, minus the skintight drainies. Dear ol’ dead Dad must be rolling over, he figured.

Paul stopped humming for a moment to swallow a lump of buried Catholic guilt clogging his throat. 

Remembering still the belt lashings he occasionally received back when he was a naughty sprite nicking sweets, Paul could imagine the sting of his dad’s calloused, working class palm as it smacked him across his poofter face. The visceral shame of a father’s devastating disappointment with his otherwise successful, talented son.  Conservative Jim would have despised the realization that he had unknowingly spawned and then raised a pillow biter. Paul had convinced himself of that irrational conclusion years ago. Perhaps Mary would have accepted him for who he was, had she not gone and died on him. Two dead parents, forever blissfully unaware of the disgraceful truth about him—about him and that Lennon scruff.

Lost somewhere in swirls of self-pity and pain, Paul hadn’t yet realized that John had returned to the front parlor of their quaint, let cottage until he felt two strong hands from behind gently massage the tops of his shoulders.

“I remember that tune. Your old man used to play it, right?” John whispered, pecking the short, dark hair on his lover’s head with affection.

“He did. Every bleedin’ Christmas.”  Paul leaned back and lifted his chin, looking up into John’s downturned eyes.  “Sean’s asleep?”

“Yeah, out like a light. Took five reads, but I finally got that fucking wocket outta me pocket. Shit, that book’s getting old. Father Christmas better bring him some new bloody books.”

“I did.”  Paul chuckled softly and returned his attention to the piano.

With Paul seated on the piano bench, his back to him, John peeled off his navy sweatshirt and threw it on a nearby chair.

“So you’re sure that everything set then? For the kids?”

“Was finished days ago, luv.  Wrapped and ready.”  Paul had answered that fucking question nearly half a dozen times since yesterday.  It was their first Christmas together with all of their kids, except for Heather. She still wouldn’t speak to him and Paul couldn’t blame her given the circumstances. But his three youngest would be driven over to the cottage for the festive, blended celebration.  Shit.  Their first Christmas together, with their children and Martha and all the trappings.  Lennon was twitchy nervous.  So was Paul.

“When are your kids getting here, Macca? 

Christ, it was stuffy warm in the front room. John quietly pushed down his white sweats, letting them fall into fabric pools around his bare ankles, before kicking them off to the side.

“Linda’s solicitor said about noon. The kids are celebrating Christmas morning with their mum first, remember?”  Paul paused his playing for a few seconds; shit, he missed waking up every day in the same house with his babies.  Would they ever understand why he’d done what he’d done to them? Why he’d betrayed their mother?  He cleared his throat to speak.

“Jules will be here early tomorrow, right?”

With a wicked twinkle, John pulled his undershirt up over his head, letting it fall nonchalantly down into Paul’s lap.

“First thing.  He wants to watch his baby brother open his gifts. Soft git he’s turning out to be.”

Silently, Paul stared at the soft white cotton resting in his lap; a moment later, a pair of patterned boxers dropped from above and rested on top of the shirt.  McCartney’s face, still smarting from an imagined slap from his dead father, slowly warmed into a randy smirk. 

Sexy bastard.

John bent down behind him and began nuzzling the shell of Paul’s ear with his nose, brushing his lips seductively along the curved edges, until he pulled back to speak.

“Come here, then.  I wanna give you your pressie.”

Slowly Paul pushed back the piano bench and turned around, pausing to drink in the sight of John standing there naked, his smooth, beautiful body lit only by a small lamp in the corner.

As he wrapped his arms around John’s bare waist and pulled him closer, Paul mumbled into John’s abdomen, letting his hands glide down the concave curve of his partner’s lower back, letting his fingers knead John’s firm, round cheeks.

“Thought we were waiting until tomorrow, Johnny.”

“I have something I want to give to ya in private tonight, all right? Ya know, before the place fills up with shredded holiday paper.” 

“A private pressie, is it? You’re a very naughty, naked lad, Jock.”

“Get your filthy mind outta the gutter, McCartney.  C’mon, let’s sit by the fire.”

Exhaling a release of tension, glad to finally put aside his uptight worries and irrational shame, Paul let John grab him by the hand and pull him across the room toward the glowing embers still burning in the old stone fireplace. They sat down on the rug in front of the fire, facing each other… Paul still dressed in a button-down shirt, jeans and dark grey socks, John in his hairless, freckled birthday suit. With a broad smile, dimples dotting his cheeks, John grabbed Paul by the face with both hands, and leaned in close. 

“Shit, Paul—you’re a fucking beautiful man.”

“Mmm, so are you. I love you, John. I always have.”

John reached under the nearby tufted armchair and pulled out a small box, clumsily wrapped with a much too large velvet red bow.  He’d been planning this for weeks. Well, more like months really.

“Here. Happy first Christmas together, Paul.”

“Wrapped it yourself, I see. Ta, luv.”

“Shut up and open it before I fucking take it back.”

Paul snorted and dramatically tore off the silver paper and garish bow, tossing them to the side with campy flair.

Then he froze.

The small cube was made of dark, reddish wood like a jewelry box.  It looked expensive.  After glancing up at John one more time, nervous and excited at the same time, Paul carefully lifted the top back on its hinge.

Paul looked up again; his eyes were wide and his lips parted.  He started to chew on his lower lip out of habit.

“What the… Are you fucking with me, John?”

“It’s got an inscription. On the inside. See?”

Paul gingerly lifted the wide, polished gold band from the wooden box and lifted it up between his thumb and forefinger.  “Johnny…” His breath caught in his windpipe before he could finally squeak out that terrifying question.  “Are you… Are you proposing to me or something?”

“Well, considering that two blokes getting married isn’t exactly legal, then I suppose it’d be something else. But something sort of like that, yeah.”

Paul stared at the gold ring like a bewildered hobbit, lifting it closer and turning his head like a puppy dog to inspect it.  The awkward silence was grating on Lennon’s already raw nerves.

“For Christ’s sake, ya don’t have to wear it if you don’t want, Paul.” 

“John.”  Paul scolded, and then squinted.  “Shit, what’s it say?  I can’t see the letters without me reading specs.”

“Same thing that was on your bracelet before you lost it, ya nit. Remember?”

“ _You suit me. I balance you._ Course I remember.”

John grinned at the sound of Paul repeating dead Stu’s comment from another lifetime ago.  He reached out and gently lifted Paul’s chin with a finger. “Don’t lose the fucking ring, ok?”

“I won’t. Promise.  But I mean, why? What made you do  _this_?”

“Because… Shit, cause I want my words touching your skin, touching you somewhere.  Like it used to be.  Before… Before we cocked it all up. That’s all. Don’t go all serious on me. It’s just scratches on a piece of metal, Macca.”

Paul had heard nothing after the word ‘skin’ spilled like silk off John lips. At that moment, in that room, on Christmas Eve of a new decade, McCartney knew for the first time that this was right.  That he and John being together was right, and that everything else would work itself out, eventually.

Confused family members, furious ex-wives, baffled friends and disappointed fans alike. Fuck em. It would all work out. 

It had to.

“Would you put it on me?”

Shaking his head with a smile at the sincerity in Paul’s voice, John slid the band onto his lover’s ring finger.  It fit perfectly. Snug but not too tight. With one of his playful, high-pitched voices and a flurry of spastic gestures, John pronounced, “I hereby declare you Mrs. James Paul Lennon.”

“What? That’s a load of rubbish!  I’m the bloody husband here.  See? I’m wearing the trousers, aren’t I?  Now spread those creamy thighs for me, wench.”

John closed his eyes and leaned back, crossing his forearms behind his head on the rug; then he spread his bent legs wide apart, without so much as a hint of modesty.  Paul just stared at John’s exposed body, speechless and stunned at the seductive submission, his mouth dangling open and his hardening prick twitching like mad under the tight denim.  After a few silent seconds, John slowly opened his eyes and peered at him through his lashes.

“Well, what are you waiting for?  A formal invite from the bloody palace?”

With a sly leer crinkling up his features, Paul crawled the short distance across the floor on his hands and knees.  Still raised up on all fours, he hovered over his splayed, stripped lover. He would take his sweet time tonight—drive John batty with slow-boiling, unfulfilled need. 

Make him fucking beg for it.

After a few moments of peppering his partner’s sensitive neck with light, teasing nibbles, John interrupted him with a sarcastic snicker.

“So, luv. Ya’ve thought of something brilliant to say when Sean wakes up and catches ya poking his poor old dad on the parlor floor? Right, Poo-Poo?”

“Holy shit.”  Paul jerked back and sat on his heels, rubbing his swollen package and then raking his fingers through his hair in blatant frustration.  “Forgot about Sean there for a mo.” 

“Uh, huh.  C’mon. Let’s move this to the bedroom, baby.  Give us a hand.”

With a huff, Paul pushed off his knees and stood up, reaching down to help his naked lover up off the braided rug. After a short stroll down the narrow hall, with Paul mauling John’s round rump with his hungry hands the whole way, John stopped in his tracks right inside the bedroom threshold.  He winced and grumbled, grabbing his right shoulder.

“Fucking hell.”

“What is it?”  Paul asked quietly, as he shut the door behind them and turned the lock.

“Fucking pulled something again.  Shit.”

“S’alright, luv.  Go lay down on the bed.  I’ll be right back with something to rub into your shoulder.”  Paul wrapped an arm around John’s waist, kissing the sore spot.  “Go on then.”

Paul returned from the loo, still dressed and holding a tube of lubricating lotion in his hand, to find John sprawled out on his stomach on top of the multi-colored quilt covering the mattress. Padding across the cozy room, he found a pack of matches and lit a couple of candles before switching off the table lamp.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Lennon?”

“Shut up, Johnny.  You’re spoiling the mood.”

Gently, McCartney climbed up on the bed and straddled the solid mounds of John’s perfect bum, rubbing his stiff prick hard against the dip of that delicious arse crack.  Before John could protest, Paul drizzled a puddle of cool cream onto his shoulder and began massaging it into the knotted muscles.

“Ah, yes. Right there, yes. Shit, that feels good.”

“Yeah?  Better?”  Paul’s hands soon began rubbing circles across John’s entire broad back, running his thumbs up and down the hollow of his spine and then spreading his hands out to the sides in intoxicating swirls. Groaning into the bedcovers, low and deep, John soon covered his face with his left bicep, drowning in waves of relaxation. When it seemed that John might actually doze off, Paul sat back and spread his lover’s cheeks with his fingers.  Leaning down, he first blew warm breaths against the sensitive skin of John’s bum rosebud, and then traced his tongue over the hot edges of his hole in slow gyrations.

“Oh, god…”

“Mmm, yeah.”  Paul’s lips turned up into a smirk as he continued to rim his partner into delirium.  Satisfied that John had completely surrendered to his touch, he pushed John’s hips up for easier access to his heavy, beautiful balls, taking them one at a time between his full lips, sucking ever so softly and humming low to vibrate each one with ripples of pleasure.

“Christ, Macca… fuckin’ touch me.”

Paul let John’s squishy love nut slip out of his wet mouth and snarled the unmistakable order. He’d be in charge tonight.

“Touch yourself for  _me_ , darling.” 

Without further goading from his lover, John quickly grabbed hold of his throbber and pumped himself furiously, moaning in rhythm with his strokes; watching with an expression of delight spread across his flushed face, Paul sat back again and greased three fingers of his left hand with the slippery cream.

“Ready?”

John unleashed an animal-like cry into the quilt that sounded close to ‘please.’  Paul didn’t hesitate, skillfully shoving all three, long fingers up John’s bum, hard and unwavering and deep… just the fucking way Lennon liked it, until his talented fingertips felt the bumpy knob of his prostate and rubbed fast, in tempo with John’s wanking motions.

“Yeah, that’s how you like it, isn’t it?”  Drops of sweat rolled down Paul’s forehead and neck, staining the collar of his shirt and splattering over the backs of John’s quivering thighs. Unable to speak or make any coherent semblance of a word, John simply whimpered and nodded as he squirmed and rubbed his package against his own trembling hand. Finally, desperately, Lennon found his voice.

“I’m close, Paul. I’m fucking gonna...”

“Let it go, luv.  We’ve all night.  Stamina, remember?”

As John’s cock pulsed and then exploded salty batter over the covers, muffling his screams into the bedspread, Paul expertly slowed the rhythm of his probing fingers, pressing more tenderly against John’s sensitive bulge, milking his lover’s seed sack bone fucking dry.

Drained to a shivering, quivering rag doll, John collapsed in bliss; back on his heels again, Paul unbuckled his belt with one hand, affectionately slapping John’s sweat-drenched bum a few times; with two quick moves, he pulled down his zipper and pulled out his velvet, aching prick. He didn’t want to fuck John from behind, not tonight… but he figured a few backdoor thrusts would be a lovely start.  John was lubed and loose; Paul penetrated in one, aggressive stroke, burying himself deep inside his lover. He nearly lost it in the tight, tasty heat, but a quick glance at the precious gold band on his own finger gave him the momentary control to pull out and roll John over.

“This way. I want to see your face, want to kiss you...”

John cooperated without a smidgen of resistance, allowing Paul to pull his weak, freckled legs up and over Paul’s strong shoulders, nearly folding John’s body in half as McCartney once again filled Lennon’s readied, slippery, burning bum.

“So beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful…” Paul planted a loving trail of soft kisses all over John’s well-shagged face—on his forehead, eyelids, nose, cheek bones and lips, all the while never slowing down his powerful, demanding thrusts into his compliant, moaning lover.  He wouldn’t last long. His toes curling, his hands tangling John’s soft curls, grabbing and leveraging and pounding.  With their soaked foreheads pressing against each other, Paul closed his huge eyes and felt the volcanic surge building and churning in his groin.  He wouldn’t last long at all.  Fuck.

It would be a screamer of a monster orgasm. Barely lucid, John still recognized the familiar, early warning signs and grabbed Paul by his hair, shoving a pillow hard up against Paul’s ecstatic face as shots of warm Maccamilk gushed into him, muffling the exquisite clamor of a full-blown McShriek to hopefully prevent his son, sleeping peacefully in a nearby room, from waking up, scared and confused by Poo-Poo’s screeching wail of searing satisfaction.

After a final spurt of spasms, Paul buckled and crumpled, slumping down on John wet chest, cuddling his nose next to John’s tiny, hairless nub of a nipple.  John ran his fingers through those short, dripping dark locks, softly kissing his partner’s damp mop of hair.

“I love you, baby.”

“Mmm, yeah. Holy shit! Fuuuuuck… I love you, Johnny.”

 Happy bum loving first Christmas together indeed.

They could do this.

 ******

**Scotland, 25 December 1980**

 

Paul was standing next to the sink in the kitchen, his back to the door, sucking on a quick smoke while staring with pride at the Christmas pudding he’d prepared for the family yesterday.  He could hear John and the kids mucking about with the mountain of toys and shiny new musical instruments in the parlor; he stuck a finger in the holiday treat for a quick taste test.  Perfect.

As he ground out his cigarette, he heard the soft pitter-patter of Martha’s padded paws enter the room.  He’d recognize that comforting sound anywhere and didn’t bother to turn around, assuming she was simply interested in sniffing about for any spare food scraps that might have fallen to the floor.

“Hey there ol’ girl.  Bloody good Christmas, isn’t it?”

Martha rubbed hard against his left leg, and then sat down by his feet, her dark, soulful eyes barely visible through the messy mop of sheepdog fur.

“You want to try a bit of the pudding then?  S’good.”  Paul scooped out a mouthful of sweet slime from the porcelain bowl and let his left hand drop down to let her lick the pudding off his finger. When he didn’t feel the familiar sloppy tongue lapping his skin, he finally turned to look at her.  She just sat there staring at him, panting with a smile, until finally a noise came out of her yellow-toothed muzzle. 

“Gimme one of those fuckin’ smokes, ya arrogant little prick." 

Paul froze and then backed up, stumbling over his bare feet until his back hit the fridge door.  What the fuck was that?  He’d had a bit of scotch, sure… but he wasn’t nearly that pissed.  Was there something extra in that joint he and John had shared earlier in bed that Christmas morning?

While Paul was frantically trying to remember all the substances he’d ingested that just might cause him to hallucinate, Martha jumped up and snatched the pack of smokes off the kitchen counter.  After a few hard shakes of her burly head, a couple of cigarettes flew out of the soft pack and onto the tiled floor.  She picked one up; would have been fucking easier if she had lips, but the old bitch managed.

“Oi!  Light me smoke, McCartney.  I’d do it meself, but your woolly mongrel doesn’t have thumbs.”

“Who the fuck are you?  What have you bloody done to my dog?”  Paul wanted to shout, but his voice escaped as just barely more than a scratchy whisper.   Martha scrambled over to a chair, fag still sticking out from her mouth and climbed up, settling in and leaning back against the seat, bending her spine the way dogs just weren’t supposed to do.  Then she crossed her hairy legs, one over the other. 

“Don’t recognize me, then?”

“Recognize you?  What the hell?”

“It’s me, Paulie. Yer old mate from Liddypool. Well, s’ppose we weren’t exactly friends, were we?”

“Come again?”

“S’ppose I was more John’s mate—his best fucking mate, ya queer prat!”

Paul’s mind raced through all the possible candidates of Scouse bastards that might have climbed inside his dear Martha, possessed her like a bloody demon.  John’s best friend?  Pete?  No, Shotton was alive and well and John had just rang him the other week.  Couldn’t be Pete.

“Christ, yer still as thick as ever, ya daft cunt. Never did understand what Lennon saw in you, ‘cept that for that girly, bulbous bum of yers.”

Fuck.

It couldn’t be.

Sutcliffe.  It was arsehole, artsy Sutcliffe.

“Stuart?”

“Ah, the light bulb finally went on in that pretty, dense head of yers!  Now light me fuckin’ smoke!”

Trembling and pale and dazed, Paul pulled the lighter from his trouser pocket and cautiously approached the seated dog, quickly lighting the end of the cigarette from as safe a distance from the talking-dog thing as he could manage.

“Ta. Shit, that’s better.”  MarthaStu sighed as she exhaled her first drag, running a paw through her tangled dreads.

“What…What do you… What do you want?”  Fuck, McCartney was starting to hyperventilate.

“Just a wee chat, Paulie.  Happy Christmas, by the way.”

“Get the fuck out of Martha.”  Barely able to breathe, let alone scream, Paul was scared shitless now, his big, brown eyes welling up with water.  He wanted to run into the other room, but his bare feet felt like cement, glued fast to the kitchen floor.

“Easy there, laddie.”  Martha!Stu paused and took another long, satisfying drag, re-crossing her shaggy legs with drama.  “I’m not hurtin’ yer mutt. Well, ‘sides the ciggie smoke and all.  Got any booze?”

“Piss off!  Tell me whatever horseshit it is you’re going to say and fucking leave.”

“Testy, are we?  I just wanna congratulate ya, mate. Finally got together with John, eh?  That took bloody forever.  Yer one lucky prick of a bastard, ya know that.”

“Lucky?  Why?”  Paul was starting to regain some composure, despite the fact that he was chatting with a dog sucking down a smoke and reclining in a kitchen chair. His briefs were a bit clammy; shit, he must have pissed himself some when Martha first spoke. Fuck, what if he’d actually gone stark raving mad?  Could be the stress, right?

“So, ya know I’m dead?”  MarthaStu barked gruffly, after she spit out her spent cigarette onto the floor in front of Paul.

“S’what I thought, yeah.”

“Well, I am dead. But I visit now and then, here and there. Check in on John. Make sure he’s all right.”

“How’s that fucking possible?”

“A lot’s fuckin’ possible, ya closed-minded cunt! Like you being with John right now on  _this_  bloody Christmas. Like John being  _here_ , in Scotland, alive and well and shaggin’ ya senseless.” 

MarthaStu crossed her furry leg-arms and sighed. 

“Shit, everything’s possible apparently, like pompous, prat Paulie being able to fuckin’ hear me. Wasn’t so sure it’d work, ya know.”

“John’s here with me because he  _wants_  to be here, Stuey.”  Panic and shock were morphing into a bitter pool of bile in Paul’s gut.  He’d forgotten just how much he hated Sutcliffe.

Fucking artsy, dead cunt.

“Listen, Paul—ya have to be careful.  There’s a shitload of mad nutters out there.  John needs protection.”

“What the fuck are you on about, Sutcliffe?”

“There’s crazies out there, McCartney. Deranged fucks that want to see John dead.  I’ve done all I could.  Now it’s your job, got it?”

“You’re a prick, Stu.  You’re not scaring me, you talentless twat.”

“You should be fuckin’ scared, Paulie.  You almost lost him.  For good. You can thank me later. Remember me bloody dear honey that you stole, ya fucker?” 

“I don’t believe you, Stu.  Never did believe in the great fucking genius, Stuart Sutcliffe.  You’re a phony prick. Always were.”

“Is that right, bitch face?  Well, ask little Georgie.  He’ll back me up.  He knows.  Ask him!”

“How’s George involved in this crazy shit of yours?”

“It’s right complicated.  I can’t share all the details—not allowed, but ask him.  He knows.  Ask him about the mad gnome.”

“What the fuck?”

With her sharp hearing, even at her ripe-old, arthritic dog age, Martha!Stu heard the faint sound of someone walking towards the kitchen.  She jumped off the chair and landed on the floor on all four paws, panting hard. 

John sauntered in, kissed Paul on the cheek and picked up a rogue, fresh smoke off the floor, scratching his head in wonder at the strange pattern of random cigarettes strewn about the tiled floor 

“Um, right. So where’s yer delicious pudding, luv?”  John lit the fag and took a deep drag.

“Eh?  Oh, it’s ready.  I’ll bring it out now.”

“Shit, Paul. See? I told you!  See? Your fucking dog is humping me leg again.”

“Yeah, she’s a fucking whore.”

MarthaStu let go of John’s calf and stepped back, growling at her master, baring her tartar-coated teeth.

“I think she likes me better than you, Macca.”

“Yeah, I know.  Bloody mangy bitch.”

Paul grabbed the bowl of homemade pudding and swaggered into the parlor, as John looked down at the smiling sheepdog.  Fucking randy bint of a mop. Shit, he loved Paul’s scruffy mutt, always had. He tossed her a morsel of leftover turkey and then followed his lover out of the kitchen to the parlor. 

“It’s your job to protect him now, McCartney.”  MarthaStu growled, as she padded out the half-open door that lead to the field outside the country cottage.  She needed to dump a good, Christmas shit in the yard.

~~~~~

**Come over and check out my original m/m fiction story, "Dominus," by JPKenwood: http://archiveofourown.org/users/JPKenwood.  Happy Holidays!**

 


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